


Three Stops, Five Regulars, and You

by roanniom



Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Paterson is a sweet bb boi, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29270265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roanniom/pseuds/roanniom
Summary: While at the end of his usual bus route, Paterson picks up a passenger he’s never seen before - you.
Relationships: Paterson (Paterson)/Reader, Paterson (Paterson)/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Three Stops, Five Regulars, and You

Paterson drives the same route every day. He knows the people who get on, where they board, and where they disembark. The sweet old lady who gets her groceries at the corner store on Tuesdays. The recent emigrant from Nigeria who sits in the front and practices English with the local florist as they both commute to different jobs in the same strip mall. The high school baseball player who acts rowdy in the back of the bus with his teammates until the teammates get off on Maple Street and he remains on for eight more stops, always moving to sit shyly with a girl Paterson has gathered to be the boy’s old English tutor.

But never you.

When Paterson opens his folding doors and you walk in, he is immediately struck by your newness. The way the planes of your face reflect no familiarity back onto him unsettles Paterson as you pass him by to take your seat a few rows down. He inhales the scent that wafts in your wake, trying to place it but, as with your features, he draws a blank. Freesia? Gardenia? Paterson blinks at the expanse of windshield before him in an attempt to ground himself in the here and now.

It’s a Friday afternoon, almost early evening.

He’s on 5th and Potomac.

Three more stops till he’s done with his shift.

Done to go home to a microwaved meal and a comfortable couch.

Five more regulars to get to their destination.

And you.

Paterson looks up then into the rearview mirror only to meet those unfamiliar eyes. Beautiful eyes, he registers somewhere in the back of his short-circuiting brain. Eyes that take him in through the mirror. Appraising him. He wonders what they see in him, these eyes that can’t possibly know him any more than his know you.

“Hey Pat, we outta gas or something, buddy?”

The good-natured tease comes from Ollie, the auto mechanic, sitting in his usual seat in row six. This does nothing to stop Paterson from jumping a foot into the air and muttering his apologies before clunking the bus into gear.

It takes Paterson several minutes of silent driving before he works up the courage to glance at the rearview mirror again. He argues with himself internally before he does so.

You’re probably not even looking anymore. No, it’s much more likely you’ve become engaged in polite conversation with another passenger or pulled out a book or lost yourself looking out the window, taking in the outside world with those beautiful eyes…

Or, less likely but much more anxiety-inducing, you could still be looking. Looking at the lanky bus driver with the goofy ears who stared like an idiot instead of doing his job. He kicks himself at the thought of the way he’d gaped at you. Openly and so out of character.

What he should have done was averted his eyes when you’d entered, waited a respectable amount of time, and then peered back a few times to catch a glimpse. He could have taken in the curve of your jaw, the arch of your brow, the turn of your nose, all without detection from the comfortable anonymity of the driver’s seat. Gone home and written a poem or two about the ethereal creature who’d gotten lost and found herself on his bus route, a sprite or a fairy who would disappear tomorrow like some Freesia-scented vapor, perhaps never really there to start.

But no. He’d looked. And you’d looked.

And now he looks again.

His eyes dart back to the road immediately and his pulse races.

You were looking.

Paterson takes a few deep breaths and minds a stop sign before he hazards a glance again.

Yes. Still looking.

But this time he notices the smile on your face. The lips he hadn’t noticed, being so far below your eyes as they were, your eyes which had been just about as far as he had gotten to this point. The smile is soft but amused. Your hand lifts up in a small wave and Paterson feels himself heat up all the way down to his sensible shoes. His ears burn and he brings his eyes back to the road by force of habit and in order to do his job of steering this bus full of people but for absolutely no other reason. Because now he has two different things that require his attention – your eyes and your lips. Both deserving of equal consideration.

When his eyes revisit the road he realizes the next stop is upon him. When the bus pulls to a halt and deflates down steadily to allow passengers to climb out, Pat counts the seconds with his heartbeat. Wondering if this is your stop. Knowing which stop it is for all other riders but you. Knowing Mr. McKinney will get off to see his nephew and that the kind goth boy whose name he doesn’t know is off to the library with music blaring in his ears. Paterson nods to each of them as they pass, but does not look up to see them, opting instead to stare straight ahead.

When his peripheral vision doesn’t show him your retreating figure Paterson looks up to find you still in your seat, this time sitting lower. More comfortable. But still looking. Still smiling.

Involuntarily, Paterson feels a smile spread across his own face. He closes the folding doors and shifts back into gear.

Two more stops and three more passengers.

And you.

As Paterson navigates his way into the middle lane to avoid construction, he tries to settle his racing thoughts. He’s confused by this reaction, mental, physical and otherwise. It’s not like he’s never had a pretty passenger before.

So why does your face look like nobody he’s ever seen but everything he’s ever looked for?

“What’s your favorite thing about being a bus driver?”

Paterson inhales sharply and he jerks his head around at the unfamiliar voice to see that you are now sitting in the seat directly behind him. Your smile larger than ever.

Paterson swallows thickly, searching for the first words best to say to you.

“Passengers shouldn’t move about while we’re in motion.”

Wrong words.

“So is it that? The authority?” you joke, your smile becoming more lopsided, Paterson’s thankful to be able to see. Even with you right behind him he can still see you in the rearview mirror.

“No! No I didn’t mean to…I mean it’s really not that big…we’re only going 30 –” Paterson’s stuttering is cut off by your laugh.

“Ok if not that then what is it?”

“Um, what is what?” Paterson asks, looking back up after yielding to a bicyclist.

“What’s your favorite thing about being a bus driver?”

“Oh.” Paterson looks back at the road.

He’s never really thought of it. Mainly because nobody had ever asked it before, so he hadn’t bothered to ask it of himself. But it only takes another second of thought before he has his answer.

“It’s a weird limbo.”

“Come again?” Judging by your expression this was clearly not an answer you’d anticipated.

“Being a bus driver you are part of people’s daily lives. You go with them to work, you take them home after a long day. You see them with their friends and family. Or alone.”

“I’m alone,” you point out with a nod. It’s a simple statement, as if corroborating his assessment. Paterson grins and nods.

“Exactly, you’re alone. It’s very personal, in a way. Being there for these moments in between where they are coming from and where they’re going.”

“Intimate?” you offer. Paterson feels his throat go dry as he nods again.

“Yes. Intimate.”

“But you called it limbo?”

“Well it might be intimate, but it’s from a distance. A bus driver is only a small part of someone’s day, but my passengers are my day.”

“Oh,” you exclaim, voice softer than before. “I guess I never thought about it that way.”

The next stop, the penultimate one, comes into view and Paterson eases to bus to halt. A single mother known for jogging around the park in the evenings bids Paterson good night and Ollie claps him on the back as he heads out for dinner with his kids. Upon their exit, Paterson’s eyes seek out yours in the mirror once more. Wondering again if this is the place where you get off.

You lean against the back of your chair. Still very much seated.

Still very much a passenger.

It is then, as Paterson closes the folding doors once more, that he realizes the rest of the bus is empty. This startles him, as usually there is one more regular on the bus for this last upcoming stop. A man, very quiet and not unlike himself. Though Paterson doesn’t know much about him, he’s always wondered just how similar they are. Wondered if the man who enters a residential complex across the street from this last stop also has an empty apartment waiting from him. A lukewarm meal and a cold bed.

Paterson spares a moment to wonder where the man is, feeling a tinge of hope burn through the usual pity – perhaps the man is not alone, wherever he is, and perhaps tonight his dinner will be hot.

The folding doors hiss as they close for the second to last time tonight and Paterson pulls back into traffic. A glance in the rearview mirror reminds him that, not only are you still there, but that the absence of his final regular means that you two are very much alone.

The thought makes blood pound in his ears and he finds his eyes darting between the road and the mirror, not wanting to miss a second of whatever you may do, whatever you may say.

And you don’t make him wait long.

“That man called you Pat earlier,” you say in that lilting voice. “Is your name Patrick?”

“Paterson.” He says it wearily, bracing himself for the inevitable exclamation sure to come about how his name couldn’t possibly be what he says it is because no, that’s the name of the town.

Instead he sees you nod in the mirror as if this is the most rational name he could have given. Of course his name is Paterson.

The silence that follows is heavy with a lot of things, chief among them the things he wishes he could bring himself to say. Questions mainly, ones to counter the questions you’ve lobbed at him. After a block passes he opts for a simple one.

“What do you like best about being a bus passenger?” The question is timid and he hates himself for it, but the sound of your laugh is an pleasantly unexpected reward.

“I like the bus drivers.”

Paterson laughs with you then.

“Now you’re making fun of me.”

“No, I’m not!” you say with mock offense. Paterson flexes his fingers on the steering wheel, starting to feel them tingle. Probably a symptom of a long day of driving.

Or a symptom of you.

“Ok maybe you’re not making fun of me, but there’s no way that’s your answer.”

“You’re right, maybe it’s not the bus drivers,” you say then, leaning forward to rest your chin on your arms as they fold on top of the ledge separating the first row from the driver’s seat. Paterson can practically hear your breath as you speak your next words. “Maybe I just like you.”

If Paterson hadn’t already been pulling up to the final stop he’s pretty sure he would have slammed on the breaks. When the bus eases into motionlessness, Paterson’s hand automatically opens the folding doors, something he probably wouldn’t have thought to do if the action wasn’t so tied to muscle memory at this point.

Paterson’s mind is reeling. He needs to ask you out, or at least as you your name.

But his tongue is tied and you’re standing up and reaching for your bag.

You step down the one step that brings you to the level of the driver’s seat and he gets another good look at you, eyes skittering up and down in a vain attempt to take in every detail incase this was both his first and last chance.

“Good night!” you say cheerily as you move to the door.

Paterson’s heart is sinking faster than the hydraulics on his bus when suddenly you turn around once more, almost as an after thought.

“Oh and Paterson? You were my day.”

And with that you step into the night.

Perhaps to continued tangibility.

Perhaps to vaporize into thin air.

He’s not sure which possibility scares him more.

Paterson allows himself to sit still for a few more moments, not bothering to close the folding doors so quickly this time. Allowing the cool air to flow in. Air that contains the remnants, and potential, of you.

~*~


End file.
